


Salvation, damnation

by Luce_cm



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage (implied), Brother-Sister Relationships, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Knifeplay (implied), d/s dynamics, subtle and not so subtle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luce_cm/pseuds/Luce_cm
Summary: Reader is Heahmund’s sister, who requests Ivar to bring her to him, to keep her safe. It doesn’t work out exactly as expected.
Relationships: Heahmund & Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Salvation, damnation

**Author's Note:**

> Also, alternate title to this: two switches try to out-dom one another for 3k words. Hope you enjoy!

Heahmund paces in front of you, head low and hand gripping tightly at his cross.

“You will be sent to Kent, I have friends there that can-…”

“No, I will not leave you.” You argue, to which your brother replies only with a sigh.

“I want you safe.”

“I will be safe with _you_ , not surrounded by old men and priests somewhere in Engl-…”

“Can’t you see we are surrounded by enemies!?” Heahmund’s voice doesn’t rise, but it still makes you tremble, “We can’t afford to stay together.”

“Then why make that Viking take me from Lindsey? _You_ put me in his grasp.”

“Lindsey won’t hold under English control for long,” He promises, voice almost a whisper though you can still hear the anger, the impotence, the fear bubbling beneath “It is too close to York. You’ve seen their army, they’ll…they’ll crush them all.”

“And yet you fight for them, for _pagans_.”

“I don’t have a choice,” His hands are warm on your arms, “But you do. I have to send you to Kent, I have to keep you alive.”

“Why would they kill me?”

“Punishment for a failure, maybe. Ivar knows he needs only to threaten your life to have me do his bidding.”

“And you think he’ll allow you to ship me away? The one thing that keeps you on a leash?” You shake your head, “Brother, this is madness.”

“I don’t care if he allows it,” Heahmund sentences, voice grave and certain. “Whatever punishment befalls on me, I shall endure.”

You shake your head again, and you want to fight back, argue, but you know that dead look in his eyes, you know that deadly stillness, that terrifying certainty.

And so you lower your eyes, and accept his words with a nod of your head.

He needn’t know you retrace each and every one of his steps, and undo his plans for sending you off to England. You will die before leaving your brother alone at the mercy of these heathens.

____

“Does your sister know how to play?” The Viking asks, moving a wooden piece on the board. Without missing a beat, he adds, “Or are nuns not allowed to learn chess?”

“She’s not a-…” Heahmund closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “She does.”

The Viking looks down at the board, and his expression twists into a mix of surprise and disapproval at your brother’s move.

“Hopefully better than you,” And it seems answering a question about you, acknowledging your presence, was a wrong move on your brother’s part. “Does she have a tongue?”

You keep your eyes on the pale ones of the youngest son of Ragnar.

“I do.” You reply slowly. The Viking only seems to grow more delighted with this little game of his.

“And you know who I am, don’t you, little dove?”

“There are more fun ways to make me say your name, you know.” You quip, and not even a thousand years of teachings of chastity and restraint could keep you from smiling when the Viking’s eyes widen, right before he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking…hungry.

The youngest son of Ragnar stands, using the table and then the crutch at his side to stand tall and walk towards you.

When your brother growls his name in warning, Ivar only laughs darkly, and continues approaching you until he towers over you, eyes dark and set on you.

“What would those ways be, little dove?” He reaches down, and hooks one finger on the rosary bracelet you wear, tugging on it and reminding you strikingly of bindings.

“Hands-on practice is much more…rewarding than lessons.”

“Hmm,” The Viking muses, eyes studying you with an intensity that should make you uncomfortable. He doesn’t release his hold on the rosary on your wrist, for a moment tugging on it harder and making it tighten on your skin like rope. He chuckles, “I like you. You are…interesting, for a Christian.”

“And you are…intriguing, for a Viking.”

Ivar the Boneless only huffs a laugh, but there’s still a spark of excitement in his gaze, of pride, of satisfaction.

He turns his head to the side, and addresses your brother, ordering him to leave.

Heahmund hesitates, of course he does, and his hand goes to the handle of his sword at his side. You hold your breath.

But after a moment, with the restrained anger of a dog brought to heel, the threat that he might take these Vikings and this kingdom down single-handedly if you are to come to harm written in his dark eyes; your brother takes his leave.

The Viking’s hand closes around your throat, and you only stare back at him with wide eyes as he corners you towards the wall. He is so close to you, with each breath you take you feel his armor against your own chest, you can discern every speck of blue in his eyes.

“What game are you playing?” He snarls, but you cannot find the words, your heart beating wildly in your chest and the blood in your veins singing with fear and something else. “Answer me!”

“I am not playing anything!”

“I don’t believe you,” He snarls without hesitation, lips curved into what looks like a beast threatening to attack. The hand on your neck moves up, cupping your jaw roughly and moving your head to the side. You feel his breath on your neck as he speaks again, quieter, “I don’t like being lied to.”

“I am not lying, you brute. Now get your hand off me.”

“Or what?”

Your eyes widen, but something in your blood sings at his defiance, something in his blue eyes as he dares you makes your heart quicken.

“What?”

“You heard me, little dove. What will you do, if I don’t do as you say?”

You are pushed against a wall in some Viking kingdom, with the most feared Viking alive holding you by the throat, and yet you smile at him.

You reach up with your hand, and, the same way he did earlier to you, you hook a finger on the metal arm-ring on his wrist, and tug, hard enough he feels the strain of the makeshift binding.

“Why don’t you do as I say?” You prompt sweetly, “I prefer rewarding to punishing, I have too soft a heart.”

Ivar’s lips part at your words, and naked want is written in his face. It is barely a moment, where the mask slips, the game grants you a victory, and you see him feeling the siren call of _giving in_.

Still, slowly his lips curve into a sinister smile, and he leans even closer.

“I don’t.” He promises by your ear, what you could swear is the scrap of teeth against the shell of your ear before he lets you go.

You stay there, back against the wall, trying to regain your breath, regain your control, as you watch him walk out of the room.

It is an easy, _fun_ game to play, this push and pull you engage on with the Viking. Circling one another over and over, taunting one another, testing one another; waiting for the other to pounce or retreat.

You know on your end there’s more than pretense and empty words, and you dare think on his end it’s the same.

It is _fun_ , and thrilling and liberating; and you soon find yourself enthralled by the Viking and his captivating voice, his depthless eyes that give so much away.

You know it is wrong, you know it is sinful and awful, you know no Christian would speak, wish, dream, of such things, much less with a heathen of all men.

But, at the end, you were never a very good Christian.

And so, much to your brother’s horror, you grow closer and closer to the Viking. In between the games you both play, in between the taunts and the defiance, grows what you dare call a comfortable intimacy, an understanding of one another.

It doesn’t hurt your cause that Heahmund cannot even dream of taking you right from under Ivar’s nose now, send you off to England so you can be _safe_ , but alone.

____

A sharp tug on the rosary on your wrist draws your attention to Ivar, and you turn to him with questions written in your eyes.

“We will sail for Vestfold in two days,” He tells you, smiling slightly when you make a point of wrenching your wrist, your bracelet, from his grasp. “Will you be coming with us?”

“Are you asking me to?”

“If I were, what would you say?”

You offer only a smile, partly exasperated and partly enthralled.

Heahmund stands up from his place in the table in front of you, and with a grunt of your name stalks away, to a place of relative privacy. You notice Ivar’s eyes following your brother’s retreating back with what strikes you as suspicion, as disdain, and so you hurry to follow Heahmund.

He runs a hand through short dark hair, and shakes his head as if to try and dispel himself of his anger.

“What on God’s name are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything,” You reply innocently, before your eyes find those of the son of Ragnar across the room. A thrill runs through your spine when you find he was already looking at you. “He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”

“Are you mad!?” Heahmund says lowly, in that way of his of yelling at you with a whisper. His brows furrow, “My sweet sister wo-…”

“Your sweet sister refuses to be shipped off to England, Heahmund,” You finish for him, “I would have believed you knew better than to expect me to leave you behind.”

“You put yourself at the mercy of Ivar the Boneless! That monster has none!”

You hear the Viking call your name from across the room, and even if you didn’t have a point to prove, you know you’d answer the call.

“I bought us - _you_ \- time, if anything.” You tell your brother, before you go off to sit at Ivar’s side.

____

The Viking King he takes you to meet -Harald, you remind yourself- is a strange character. A man that makes a strange thrill of disgust and fear run down your spine.

You don’t miss the implication of Ivar’s display. While your brother is brought in chains and forced to kneel at Harald’s feet, you remain standing at the Viking’s side, Ivar’s hold on the rosary bracelet you wear for once not the promise of thrill, of lust, but a silent oath of protection.

You awaken in the dead of night to the soft sound of knuckles rasping against your door. You hold on tight to the dagger in your hand, even though you know if any of these men wanted you dead you would be so.

Ivar stands at the other side of it, and it steals the breath from your lungs, the words from your lips.

Still, you let him in, and watch with wide eyes as he takes a seat on a low settee near your bed.

“Doesn’t it scare you? To be all alone with a heathen?”

You shrug, and find your voice again,

“If I were to fear, it would be for being all alone with a murderer, with a warrior. Not a pagan.”

“And why is that?”

You study him in silence for a few moments, before offering, “I am not my brother, I don’t share his…conviction.”

“His faith.”

“His fervor,” You correct, before sighing, “Maybe it will damn me for eternity, but…I ought to fear you, to hate you, for the things you have done and the things you will do, not the Gods you follow.”

“And do you?” The Viking asks, and your eyes narrow at his question. After a breath, eyes searching yours, he presses, “Hate me.”

“You care about some nun’s scorn?”

“You definitely aren’t a nun,” He offers, the hint of an amused smile on his lips, “And you are…fascinating, I’d like to know if you despise me.”

“I don’t,” At his strange expression, you press, “You’re disappointed?”

Ivar shrugs, head moving side to side as his mouth curves downwards, indecisive.

“I don’t know. There is something to be said about a poor Christian nun at the hands of a Viking; fearing, fighting, _resisting_.”

His words, the images they conjure up in your head, make a thrill run down your spine, a rush of heat settle low on your stomach. You lick your lips, and because you cannot help yourself, you offer a counteroffer,

“There’s also something to be said about a Viking at the mercy of a wayward Christian. Makes one wonder what it takes to have him…cave, obey, _beg_.”

Ivar laughs, shaking his head, “I’d like to see you try, little dove.”

There’s no mistaking the darkening of his gaze, the quickened breaths, the hunger in his expression, though. He wants it as much as you do, he craves control as much as he craves surrendering it.

You cross your legs and try focusing on the matter at hand.

“But you didn’t come here to talk…hypotheticals, did you?”

Ivar sobers, and you could swear he grits his teeth as he toys with the crutch on his hand.

“Harald promised us support. We will march for Kattegat soon.”

“I don’t have my brother’s strategic mind, I’m afraid,” You offer when he stays quiet. “I fear I won’t be of much help.”

“Lagertha could be dead, in a matter of weeks. I could…I could finally kill her.” He confesses, eyes falling from yours, and there’s the clear tell of anger in his expression. Anger at what you are sure he considers weakness, anger at having you be a witness to it.

“That is what you want, is it not?”

“To you Christians…my people are monsters, are we not?”

“You honor your Gods with blood, you value death over life, you pillage and burn and conquer. Of course my countrymen think that, of course they fear you.”

“Do you think I’m a monster, little dove?” Ivar asks you, taking you aback. If you weren’t so used to him, if you weren’t so familiar with the tones of his voice, with the subtle tells in his expression; you’d think he’s daring you.

You wouldn’t have believed, months ago, when he barged into Lindsey with an army at his back trying to find Bishop Heahmund’s sister, that one day you’d be sitting on front of Ivar the Boneless and see his eyes shining with hesitation, with vulnerability, with fear.

The answer you can offer is a smile, and a shake of your head. The answer he demands is the bruising kiss he presses against your lips, is the breath he steals from your lungs.

____

For all the ruckus planning a battle implies, for all the chaos that comes before a siege, for all the months of war talks and battle plans; the battle for Kattegat sneaks up on you.

On your happiness. On your sin.

Ivar presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, eyeing the marks of rope on your skin with careful eyes. You only watch him, sated and tranquil and at peace; letting him make inventory of the marks, of the evidence of your surrender.

“Tomorrow we will march,” He tells you quietly, rough fingers still circling your wrist delicately. “Kattegat could be mine in days.”

You hum an agreement, and stretch. Because you cannot help it, you burrow into him, your face hidden at the crook of his neck, and trace your own marks on his skin, the evidence of _his_ surrender.

The faint cuts of a knife are still visible in his chest, and when you trace your fingers over them, Ivar shudders. You smile.

“Ivar the Boneless,” You whisper against his skin, before you give in and press a soft kiss over a darkening bite mark on his shoulder. “King of Kattegat.”

He huffs a breath that could have been an amused chuckle.

“When it is all done, I…I will send your brother to York.”

Your heart drops to your stomach, and your breath shudders past your lips.

“York?”

“To defend us from some Danes that threaten it with capture. He won’t fight Christians, you have my word.

But that isn’t what made you freeze under his touch, and he knows it. Ivar swallows, and returns his gaze to the ceiling.

His hand tightens on your wrist, before he takes a deep breath.

“I want you to stay with me,” He confesses, not looking at you. “I want you at my side, I…I want to make you Queen of Kattegat.”

Your eyes widen, and you lean back, even though he doesn’t release your wrist.

“Ivar…”

“I’ll release Heahmund from his vow, he will be free, and safe. You…if you want, we can marry before your God after we marry before mine,” He promises, rushed and anxious. You realize he’s giving you reasons to say yes, as if you didn’t have enough of those written in his gaze, in his burning touch, in the marks that litter both your bodies. “I-…

You lean in, and kiss him. It has always been surprisingly useful in getting him to stop thinking, to stop talking; and you realize when he presses back against your lips with a soft sound, when his hand tangles in your hair and he brings you closer, that it continues to be so.

When you part, his eyes open slowly, and when they meet yours you see in them that emotion neither of you has been brave enough to admit yet.

“Marry me.” He whispers.

You press your brow to his with a breathed laugh, happy and mad and warm.

“Yes,” You reply, voice hushed, eyes shining. You steal a kiss from his lips, and another one when he continues to stare up at you, surprise and awe and hope written in his pale eyes. “I love you, Ivar.”

His eyes search yours, looking for the lie, for the mirage. When he finds none, Ivar smiles, wide and hopeful and _happy_.

“I love you, little dove.”

That night, he promises his love between fervent kisses, brands it against your skin in the mark of his fingers on your hips. That night, he demands your love with whispers of your name, steals it from your lungs in the air he robs you of with skillful fingers and tongue.


End file.
